Not This Time
by BeautifulForMyLove
Summary: Sherlock and John pursue a suspect on their own. The chase ends with both men injured and on their own. Will they be able to find the strength to hold on until help arrives? 12/26/2016 - Sorry this has been on hold for so long! Im back now and should be updating more. Thank you! Prompts and requests are most welcome!
1. Chapter 1

This story is inspired by the song Carry You Home by James Blunt. I'd give it a listen before you read.

Just something I had to get out on paper so to speak. :) not beta read or Brit picked so sorry in advance for any errors.

Warning: Major Character Death

I don't own anything.

Enjoy...

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As Strong As You Were...

John pounded through the soft pine needles lining the forest floor at a pace that put one in mind of running from a murderer.

Not towards one.

And yet here he was again running after his mad flatmate in the dead of night.

He could see Sherlock's long wool coat flapping wildly as he chased the murder suspect ahead of them.

They had been following the man for hours in the hope that he would lead them to his employer.

Then he had started to drive out of town.

He knew he was being followed.

He never listens, John thought. He'd told Sherlock it was a bad idea to chase a killer off into the countryside without backup.

No one even knew where they were exactly. He had fired off a text to Lestrade before running off into the woods but he was at least an hour away.

When the man had stopped his car and took off on foot into the dense forest, Sherlock had taken off after him without hesitation. Like he always did.

The trees were so thick that John lost his bearings almost immediately. His only point of reference was the bounding detective in front of him.

"Hurry up John! He's getting away!"

If possible Sherlock sprinted even faster.

Damn him and his long legs.

John watched him bound up a short hill to an outcropping of rocks a little ways ahead. He paused and John was able to catch up to him. He pushed for breath as Sherlock angrily yanked at his hair and paced in circles looking around wildly.

"Where did he go?!" he paced back and forth nearly manic as if by sheer force of will he could summon the missing man to him. There was nowhere he could have gone. The dark forest they had just came from was to their back and the rocks dropped off almost vertically in front of them.

Keeping a wary eye out himself John said, " I think he's gotten away. It's too dark to see any distance and we can't stay out looking all night."

Sherlock growled in anger, "Fine but we-"

Before he could finish a dark figure dropped from the trees above right onto his shoulders and they both crashed to the ground in a heap.

He started in shock for a brief second before he reacted.

Did he just jump from a bloody tree?

The distinct sound of bone snapping and a cry of pain jolted him to action, his soldiers mind taking over. Save his comrade from his attacker.

At the moment the large muscled man had Sherlock pinned on the ground with his arm twisted backwards at an unnatural angle. Broken, John thought.

He covered the few feet between them in a flash and knocked the man to the ground with a tackle that would make his rugby mates proud. They tumbled several feet and landed with John on top. He tried to pin the thugs arms but he was faster and threw a nasty punch to Johns ribs, knocking the breath from him. He threw them both over so John was now the one in the dirt.

The man was much stronger than he appeared and at the moment that strength was directed at Johns face. He got in two solid jabs before John could catch his breath. He felt blood pouring from his nose.

Enough was enough.

John crashed his fist into the man's jaw and he staggered back onto his arse. John was on his feet ready to pounce when he saw the glint of the cold steel in the moonlight.

"Now let's be civilized shall we? No more of this rolling about in the dirt rubbish. I'll just shoot you. Be nice and neat about it." he said in a thick Irish accent.

John held up his hands. "Think about this for a minute. The police know we followed you out here and they are on their way now. You won't get away with just shooting us."

The gun didn't waver.

His attention was drawn to Sherlock who was finally dragging himself up, hugging his injured arm to his chest.

John watched the gun swung around to aim at Sherlock.

He leaped at the suspect.

The warning shout from Sherlock came to late as the edge of rock face rushed at him.

His momentum carried them both over.

"This is going to hurt" he thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was attempting to get his breath back after being crushed to the ground by the suspect jumping from the tree.

Who does that? He thought.

He shook the haziness from his mind and raised his head to see John a dozen feet away facing the suspect with his hands up in front of him.

The man had gotten a gun out from somewhere and it was trained on John. He was too close to miss if he fired.

The shot would be fatal.

Sherlock got to his knees noisily, stifling a cry of pain from moving his damaged arm. He didn't yet have enough air in his lungs to speak.

He looked up to see the gun swing from John's head to his own at the noise. The movement seemed to Sherlock to be slow and exaggerated.

He watched John leap towards the man with the gun as soon as his attention was diverted.

But Sherlock saw what John did not.

He saw how close the edge of the cliff was and the angle at which John threw his body would send them right over and he had no way of knowing what the awaited him over that dark drop.

Taking in all the air his injured ribs would allow he shouted for John to stop. Don't be an idiot. But it was far to late for that.

Sherlock watched with rising dread as they came to the edge. He saw the realization show on Johns features. He now saw the reason for Sherlock's warning.

Sherlock could only watch as they disappeared without a sound. Over the edge and into the consuming darkness below.

No no no no!

He got to his feet and approached the edge. Fear sat in his stomach like a block of ice at the thought of what he would find. Sherlock cursed his brilliant mind at times like these. A dozen different images flashed through his mind, each as dark and haunting as the next.

Johns eyes, open and starting but not seeing.

Johns body, lying broken and bloodied.

John twisted in pain, reaching for help.

Sherlock shook his head in an attempt to rid his head off the disturbing images. Very much not helpful. Besides, it may not be that bad. He recalled a map of the area. Rocky and hilly yes, but there were no cliffs with a hundred foot drops. More likely to be 15 too 20 feet. Dangerous but survivable.

He peered over the edge.

Nothing.

He couldn't see anything in the scant moonlight.

Torch! He always had a small torch with him. He dug in his pocket to produce the small but powerful light. Flipping it on he shone it down.

The small area of illumination showed two bodies approximately 20 feet down a steep rocky incline as he had suspected. He could just make out John in his black coat and beige trousers. He was lying face down, legs partly on top of the other man. It was impossible to tell from this distance if either man was alive. He needed to get down to them.

The drop was not exactly straight down, there was a slight angle and just enough juts of rock here and there that Sherlock believed he could make it down unharmed.

He secured the light between his teeth and lowered his legs over feeling for a toehold rather than actually seeing any. He only needed to minimize the distance by a few feet and he drop down the rest.

His injured arm was completely useless. He tucked it in close to keep it out of the way and focused on keeping his balance, recalling roughly where the protruding rocks were at. He made his way down painstakingly slow. Finally he was able to jump the last little bit, the impact jarring his broken bones and causing him took bite down painfully on the light still in his mouth. Ignoring the flash of pain in his arm, he surveyed the scene before him. John lay face down, unconscious but Sherlock could see the rise and fall of his chest. So breathing. Alive. The light shone off the offending gun that caused this mess, lying just to the right of John.

Sherlock quickly checked the other man. Unconscious but alive as well. His jaw hung at an unnatural and grotesque angle. Serves him right Sherlock though to himself. He would give him a good slap when he came to just for fun. He nudged him with his foot. The man didn't move. Out cold.

Sherlock dropped down beside John set about figuring the best way to roll him over using one arm without causing further injury. He gently felt down his neck and what he could reach of his spine. It didn't appear to be injured but not all injuries were visible to the naked eye. He growled in frustration.

He placed a stabilizing hand on the back of John's head.

"John? John, wake up."

He bent closer.

A bit louder, "John!"

John stirred, a sound that could have been Sherlock slipping from his lips. He moved to get up but only succeeded in shifting a little, Sherlock held his hand firm.

"Don't move to much yet John. I don't know how badly your hurt."

John drug his arm up and wriggled it up under his face so he wasn't resting in dead leaves anymore. Sherlock watched him gently move arms, fingers, legs and , toes. Finally he turned his head to the side to look up at Sherlock.

"I think I'm ok to turn over at least. But my side is killing me. Can't catch my breath. Think I might have busted a few ribs."

Sherlock decided against criticizing his assessment based on a few wriggled extremities and helped him to position himself in his back. John's breath was coming in short, rapid gasps through gritted teeth by the time he was situated. Sherlock took the torch and shined the light on his prone friend. His stomach dropped at the sight that greeted him.

A branch protruded from John's left side just below his ribs.

Blood was already pooling and soaking through his shirt. Sherlock glanced up at John's face. He was very pale and had his eyes screwed tightly shut against the pain. Sherlock knew this was very bad. His brain shifted in to statistics and calculations. Penetrating wound by foreign object. Placement and angle suggested severe injury to lung. Impaired breathing. Possible collapse. No exit wound so...

"Sherlock."

His attention snapped up to see John looking at him. "I can read it all over your face so just tell me already. What is it and how bad?"


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock debated on just want to tell John. He always fell back on hard detached facts but as they spun through his mind the only thought he could grasp was John has a bloody branch sticking out of his chest!

Sentiment was always a fatal weakness and it was clouding his thinking. His pause drew Johns attention.

"Are you alright? Are you injured besides your arm?"

"What? No. I'm fine. There is a ...um... a stick stabbed into the left side of your chest. Just under your ribs." He was unsure of himself at the moment. A feeling he neither liked or was used to. "My guess would be you landed on it."

John's breath hitched and he closed his eyes trying to calm himself. He took a few small quick breathes through his nose. Without opening his eyes he asked "How big is it?"

Sherlock turned back to the wound. He couldn't focus on anything but the blood seeping from John. He shook his head. What was wrong with him?

"Sherlock are you sure your ok?"

"I said I'm fine. Just ... It's about half inch around. Not very long. There was no exit wound on your back. Um..it's. I don't know John! You've been impaled on a branch that's what's wrong! And I haven't the first idea how to fix it or how to get us out of here." he growled in frustration.

John instinctively reached up a hand to try and calm the man. He had barely lifted his hand when the pain forced a chocked cry of pain from him. He tried to settle himself back into a position that gave some relief to his pain. This was more than a bit not good. They were stuck in the middle of the woods, both injured and no idea if Lastrade was coming or if he had even gotten his message calling for backup.

John could tell Sherlock was not handling this well. He was so out of his element. No foggy London streets and rooftops. This was the country and the woods. This was more suited to John than to Sherlock and he was in no position to get them out of here. He closed his eyes and tried to think. They had chased the suspect for at least twenty minutes and he didn't think he had been out that long after that so maybe forty five minutes? Under the best possible circumstances rescue was at least an hour away.

Right then. They wouldn't have to hold out for to much longer and they would be home laughing about all this mess over a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea that she would make for them, just this once of course. For now he needed Sherlock's help to stabilize both their injures so they would make it till Lestrade found them.

John looked up at Sherlock who was still next to him with his good hand fisted in his hair shaking his head back and forth.

"Sherlock...Hey. Look at me. Are you ok?" The detective raised his head slowly to look toward John. He could see his face in the back glow of the torch he still held loosely in his injured hand. He looked dazed and unfocused. John had a sinking feeling that Sherlock was in worse shape than he realized.

"Sherlock. I need you to help me. You need to slow down the bleeding. It's not to bad but it needs to be stopped." John had to pause to catch his breath. "Tear off a piece of my shirt to pad the wound."

Sherlock nodded and fumbled with the torch, setting it down in such a way so as to keep some light on John. He seemed to ponder his task for a moment and finally bent over John and attempted to tear the cotton fabric with his uninjured hand and his teeth. John flinched at his hot breath against his skin. Sherlock continued this for a moment before sitting back on his heels.

"This isn't working John. What else can I do?"

John concentrated on trying to remember his army survival skills. His training had centered on the dry Afghan desert and the skills needed for such a climate. Then he remembered something his dad had told him.

"Peat. See if there is any peat moss around. Look around the ground." In a pinch peat moss could be used as a dressing. Sherlock looked at him blankly. John was losing his patience and a lot of blood. He could feel the drowsiness seeping into his bones as well as the cold.

"Sherlock. Go!" He blinked a few times but got up, taking a moment to steady himself. He began looking while mumbling to himself about the types of moss common to the area. A brief search produced a large handful of moss. He knelt back down, holding the moss and looking to John for direction. John grew even more concerned as he watched his friend. He was not behaving like himself and John suspected a head injury. He had to keep him focused as long as he was able.

"Good. Now wring out any water. Yes just like that. Ok now pack it around the stick gently and try not to move it around to much...Aarrrgg!"

John really did try not to make a sound but the new pressure on his badly injured chest was just to much. He breath was coming in small painful gasps and he could feel himself slipping into darkness. He tried to force himself to stay awake but the pain and blood loss won out. His eyes slipped closed and he sank into nothingness.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry it's been so long! It's a bit of a short chapter but the updates should be more frequent now :)

Remeber I live for your thoughts and reviews! I write for you so I want to know what you think. As always thank you for reading.

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Sherlock did his best to be gentle while packing the bleeding wound but John still cried out in pain. His hands froze in uncertainty as he looked down at John. His face was screwed up in pain and he had a tight grip on Sherlock's coat sleeve.

"John! What..." He looked back at John's injured chest that was now bleeding even more with his movements. "What do I do?" He looked back to John's face just to see his eyes slip shut and his face relax. A wave of dread swept through him at the sight of his friend looking less and less alive with every moment.

"No John! You have to stay awake. You have to tell me what to do. How often are you going to hear me say that one? Come on!"

He continued to pack the moss around the wound like this was the dark ages. He raged inside at the thought. This situation had gotten out of hand so quickly he had not a chance to really grasp the full extent of how bad it really was. He was hampered by his injured arm and John was...dying.

He just knew John, his John, was dying right here in the filth and dirt, right beneath his hands.

Sherlock stared down at his hands. Hands that were wet and sticky with the blood of his friend. Hands that were so very inadequate to help, to heal, to save. For all his intelligence and his wit he could do nothing.

Sherlock came undone.

His vision tunneled to encompass only John lying in front of him.

Time seemed to slow and then stop.

One thought surfaced through the white noise of his mind...he could not fix this therefore he had to find someone who could. Yes.

Find someone who could put this all back together the way it should be. Put John back together. Like a puzzle. A human puzzle. Sherlock liked puzzles. The more pieces the better but a John puzzle, that was no good...he would let someone else do that one.

Sherlock leaned over and held John's face in his hands waiting a moment before he spoke hoping he would open his eyes.

He did not notice how badly he was shaking.

"I have to go John but I will be back. I will bring someone for the puzzle pieces and it will all be back to before. My hands can't fix it but I'll find someone with good hands to put it back. I know it's really cold but I won't be long."

Satisfied that he had conveyed the needed information to John he stood on shaking legs to make his way to the rock face. He swayed dangerously as he reached up with his good arm to feel for a grip to begin his climb.

He hooked his fingers over a shallow ledge and tried to hoist himself up the imposing wall. His fingers immediately lost their feeble grip and he fell back gracelessly into a heap. He cried out as he landed on his injured arm, the pain taking his breath away. Spots floated in his vision and he briefly considered letting himself rest just to get away from the searing pain for a moment.

He shook his head. No! He had to bring someone to fix John. He wobbled to his feet and took a lurching step along the rock wall using it to keep his balance.

The ground tipped and heaved in front of him. Why could it not hold still so he could walk properly? He could not climb back up the incline with his limited mobility so he would have to find a way around. God he was so cold and tired and his head pounded like it was going to split open. When had it become so cold? John must be freezing.

Maybe John could help with the puzzle, he thought. He would have to remember to ask when he got back. Did John even like puzzles? He had no idea.

He continued to walk, slowly and with halting steps, along the wall.

He would find someone to fix John. He had to.


	5. Chapter 5

John was immediately aware of two things as he snapped back to consciousness.

Pain and cold.

He felt as if his limbs weighed 100 pounds and were made of ice. He could feel the cold and damp soaking into his back from the frozen ground beneath him. Rocks and sticks seemed to dig into every inch of his body in contact with the ground making him that much more miserable.

His short, ragged breaths condensed in front of his face, each one bringing a wave of blinding pain that threatened to overwhelm him. John dug his frozen fingers into the ground to steady himself and get his breathing under control. He would not remain conscience if he didn't slow his breathing and given his injuries and the temperature, he would not likely wake again.

After a few minutes John managed to calm himself down enough to asses his situation. It was still dark but had definitely gotten colder. He was unsure if that was entirely due to the temperature or blood loss. Probably a bit of both. Moving as little as possible, he turned his head to look for Sherlock.

"Sherlock...Sherlock where are you?" He didn't see any sign of the detective within his limited field of vision. That was not a good sign. Sherlock would not have just left him to bleed to death in the woods. John recalled Sherlock's behavior before he passed out. His mental state was most definitely altered, even considering his normally erratic personality. He was confused and unsure. Had he been talking about a puzzle? John could not remember all the details but he knew Sherlock was very much in trouble and needed help quickly.

First John had to get himself on his feet. He has been avoiding looking at his own injury knowing it was going to be bad. He no longer had a choice. The cold had worked to his advantage thus far by slowing his body down enough to keep the blood loss at a survivable level. John knew once he started moving again he would have to work fast.

Inch by inch he propped himself up on his elbows to get a better view of what he was up against. The effort of that alone had left him panting and sweating with exertion.

He could see the branch sticking out of his body, just below his ribs. Without proper medical scans he could not be sure but he thought the angle was such that he very likely had a punctured lung. At the very least it was putting pressure on his lung making breathing near impossible and the wrong twitch could push it to far.

John closed his eyes and tried to think. Pull it out and risk internal hemorrhaging and drowning in his own blood or leave it alone and pray that no further damage would be done. Not the best options. Ok. If he were treating someone in his condition, what would he do? Simple. Secure and immobilize the foreign object so as not to cause more trauma. Keep them still and as warm as possible until help arrived.

Unfortunately he did not have the option to sit and wait. Sherlock was out there with a head injury of some kind, the severity of which was unknown. He had to find him and get them both medical attention and not a lot of time to do so.

The temperature continued to drop. John made his choice. He was not going to die here in a ditch and leave Sherlock out there alone. Cold and probably getting more lost and confused with each passing minute.

He shifted his weigh and slowley scooted closer to the suspect they had been chasing. He got a hold of his scarf and pulled until it came loose. John was forced to stop to catch his breath. His heart was beating rabbit fast in his chest and he could feel hot blood slick his side and around to his back. He had to hurry.

He dug his fingers into the fabric of the mans shirt sleeve and ripped it off at the top. He pulled it off his arm and set his prizes on his chest. He shifted until he was resting on the suspect so he could see to work and have his hands free.

The blood was flowing freely now and his head was beginning to buzz.

The peat moss Sherlock had packed around the wound was still in place and John wrapped the shirtsleeve around the base of the branch packing it tighter. He cried out in pain when he tied it off. Tears fell down his cheeks cutting clean paths through the dirt. He swiped them away so he could see. He had to finish. For Sherlock.

He carefully rolled to his side and got his knees and hands underneath him. Spots floated in his vision. He blinked rapidly trying to clear it. If he passed out now it was over. With great effort he drug one foot up, then the other. Using his own knees for leverage he slowly inched his way upright. Or a close approximation to it. He was unable to straighten up fully. John took the scarf and wrapped it around his chest just underneath the wound and then just above it. He again tied it off at the base of the branch. The flash of pain snatched his breath away and nearly drove him to his knees again.

He wavered and stumbled over to the rock face. He braced himself for a moment, resting his cheek against the surface. After what seemed like hours his head was slightly clearer and he could breath a little easier. He took those as a good signs.

He looked up the face of the bluff and knew he would be unable to climb even a few feet. He would have to find another way around. He started off along the base of the rock looking for an easier way up.

He recalled Sherlock's injured arm and hoped that maybe he would have come to the same conclusion and went around.

Maybe John could catch up to him and they would get out of this nightmare together.

John made his way slowly and painfully along in search of his friend.


End file.
